


Living for Your Touch

by tessdebelle



Category: Rock of Ages (2012), The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: AU, F/M, Hayffie Smut, Rock of ages - Freeform, Rockstar AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:49:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessdebelle/pseuds/tessdebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You aren’t gonna report this part?” He asked. She nodded. “People have a perception of me. Drunk, rock star, sex god.” He said with a cocky smirk making her roll her eyes. He was looking at her intently and leaned in closer. “They don’t know me. And they never will. If I keep people from seeing my shit, I don’t get hurt. Even if pretending is hard sometimes. People don’t get that.” </p><p>“I do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living for Your Touch

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic! It's of course been in my head for probably months now, but I never really got all my ideas and writing down into a fic until now, and I'm really proud of how it turned out! Please leave kudos/comments if you can! You should also know that the song used in this fic is [ Private Fears in Public Places](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DYTCmfFsTI) by _Front Porch Step_. It isn't necessary to listen to this song, but it is definitely important to the plot. Big thanks to my Beta and my Effie, Tonksiefea, who has some excellent Hayffie fics you should check out as well!

Of all celebrities, the type of celebrity Effie Trinket liked least of all was musicians.

Athletes were boring, sure, but they always were a crowd pleaser, and reality stars, if a bit petty, were good for gossip. Actors, though some could be more than a little inconsiderate – in particular a certain action hero by the name of Cato Wolfe, who’d talked for half their meeting not about his new movie but about his workout regimen – were usually agreeable. Her favorites tended to be fashion designers, Cinna Fyre being a close personal friend.

But musicians were the bane of her existence.

Her first ever interview, with a rising star by the name of Johanna Mason, was part of the reason she so hated working with musicians. Johanna, an up-and-coming pop singer with an edgy side that people so loved, had stripped down in the middle of their interview to show off several of her tattoos, not caring that it had clearly made Effie – and her then-assistant, Peeta Mellark – incredibly uncomfortable. And it certainly wasn’t worth it to see the tattoo of a tree going down her spine, the dragon curling around her breasts, or the devil tattooed on her ass.

Every time she’d interviewed a musician, they’d been rude, obnoxious, and/or tried to feel her up. Which was why she expected her interview with the famous Haymitch Abernathy to be no different than the rest of them.

Haymitch Abernathy, a star who had broken out while Effie was a high school freshman, was both a legend and a cautionary tale in the world of music. He’d been hugely successful before he’d gone the way of many big names in the business – alcohol. He hadn’t produced a song in ten years and no one heard anything from him other than the occasional leaked photo providing wild speculation – had he gone back to his hometown of Seam, Vermont? Who were the teenage girls he was seen with so often? All anyone really knew was that he’d kept up the drinking, until recently, when Thirteen Records had publically announced a recording contract with him and an album release.

Effie opened up the compact in her bag, checking her reflection before walking into the offices of  _ Thirteen Records.  _ Fans of his had gone nuts hearing that he would be releasing a new album after a ten-year absence from the music world, and her boss had convinced her that being the one to interview him for  _ Capitol Magazine  _ would be a huge advantage to her career. Checking in with the secretary, she headed for the office she’d been told to meet the so-called legend in. She knocked politely at the door, and was answered with a grunt from someone inside that she took to mean ‘come in’.

The room itself looked like it had once been nice, and she knew a thing or two about interior decorating so she had high standards. Cream couches and mahogany desks were neatly arranged in the room, and gold accents of lamps and picture frames created a warm glow, it was clear the room had once been elegant, but that was no longer the case. The wood paneled floor, once shiny, was sticky with what she suspected, or rather hoped, was spilled beer, and the lovely cream couch had several stains on its soft upholstery. The lights were turned out and curtains shut, so the only illumination was from a muted flat screen, a lamp in the corner and what looked like a set of colored stage lights that had been left on, flickering on occasion in need of a new bulb. The only surface that appeared clean was a white fur rug, pushed to the wayside. Half empty liquor bottles were scattered around the room, and on the couch a pair of legs clad in tight leather pants were the only thing visible.

“Mr. Abernathy?” She asked carefully. She heard a grunt from the direction of the legs and they started moving, shifting off the arm of the couch as the matching torso appeared.

She glanced away, attempting to ignore the red of her face at the sight of the greasy and slightly annoyed looking rock-star. His hair was a matted dirty blond mess and he was shirtless, tattoos on his chest and arms plainly on display, and while he certainly was fit, he wasn’t as muscular looking as many of the photographs from his glory days. Even though they were slightly clouded, the piercing gray eyes that made girls swoon were just as striking as they had been those ten years ago.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He said in a smug, slightly groggy voice. She cringed inwardly at the nickname.

“It’s two in the afternoon, actually. Effie Trinket,  _ Capitol Magazine _ .” She said offering him a hand which he ignored, getting up in favor of the card table so laden with bottles of alcohol and glasses that it looked ready to collapse, and poured himself a glass of something resembling whiskey. None for her, she noticed. She didn’t mind – the smell of alcohol in the room was pungent enough that none was necessary. “We have an interview?” She said after a few minutes of silence in which he’d sat back down on the couch with his drink.

“Interview… Interview… Interview…” He repeated as if saying it might make it less true. “Right, think I heard somethin’ about that.” He said waving his hand dismissively.

She wasn’t sure if she should take that to mean ‘whatever’, ‘go away’, or ‘I’m an asshole’. Probably all three, even if he’d only intended the first two. She huffed and perched on an armchair that wasn’t too horribly stained, taking out her notebook and clearing her throat. She was about to speak when he interrupted her.

“Does your face naturally look like that or do you actually intend to cake on makeup that much?” He asked mockingly, as if he knew full well that he was insulting her.

 

She froze with her pen over her pad of paper glancing up at him. “I’m just saying. You look ridiculous.” He added. “Your hair looks like something a bird would live in.” He said. She opened her mouth wanting to retort with a completely undignified response, but shut it again.

“This is the height of fashion, Mr. Abernathy. Which I doubt you would know if it bit you on the nose! And I hardly think you’re in the position to question a lady’s style choices.” She snapped. He let out a snort of laughter, about to take another sip of his drink, before she snatched the glass from his hand and set it on the table nearest her, out of his reach.

“Hey!” He shouted angrily. She ignored it, smoothing down her skirt completely disregarding his obvious annoyance.

“You’ll get that back when you finish this interview and learn some manners.” She said, staring him down. He seemed frustrated but leaned back against the couch, appearing slightly more serious, realizing she wasn’t someone to be messed with. She fought the urge to smirk and turned on her recorder to tape their interview, clearing her throat once more. “Mr. Abernathy –“

“Haymitch.”

 

She glared daggers at him. He smirked at her, as if pleased with himself, and she began again. “Haymitch. You have hardly been seen by anyone in ten years, and have ignored all attempted contact by the media, concert requests, even avoided being photographed. Why have you come out now to release a new album?” She asked.

He seemed almost surprised by this question, and she counted it as a victory. Most interviewers liked to ease their way into asking such serious questions, starting off making small talk, but she didn’t like this approach when it came to working with celebrities like him. “Seemed like the right time.” He said shrugging.

 

Victory rescinded. He wanted to play tough and draw this out. She didn’t like it, but she’d play his game. She knew she had to if she wanted this interview to go well. “And can you give any insight as to why that is? Does it have anything to do with the two girls you’re so often seen with?” She asked.

This question seemed to stun him, and she knew why – the two girls were only occasionally photographed with him, and he wasn’t the type to keep up with gossip. He probably hadn’t expected anyone to know about them. She jumped in, wanting to press him into giving more information. “There have been many speculations as to who they are and what they’re doing with you. Have you been dating the older of the two? You’re forty-five Mr. Abernathy, do you honestly think that’s appropriate?” She asked. People expected he was seeing a much younger woman like many men his age did, even if the brunette he was so often photographed with didn’t look a day over twenty.

He barked out a laugh that she hadn’t been expecting. “My nieces.” He said. She thought back to the photographs and realized that, yes, the two girls did resemble him, if slightly. The younger of the two had his coloring, blonde hair and pale skin, even if she had a petite frame that his wide shoulders easily dwarfed, and the older had those gray eyes.

“And you’ve been with them for all this time? What about their parents?” She pressed on. It was a little known fact that he’d lost his brother years ago in a mining collapse in his hometown, but that had been five years before his infamous disappearance from the public eye.

“That’s personal. I highly doubt it would interest your readers. I don’t want those two getting involved in all of this.” He said. “They’re just kids. I take care of them. That’s all there is to it.” He added. She wanted to ask more, but the dark look in his eyes warned her otherwise and she wisely kept her mouth closed to the issue.

“And does your disappearance have anything to do with the death of Willow DiJules?” She asked carefully.

The story of Willow DiJules had blown up just a month before Haymitch had disappeared from the press. She and Haymitch had been high school sweethearts, and as he got more and more famous, she did too, and she hadn’t been comfortable with the spotlight. While magazines and press treated him well, she was constantly attacked in interviews and criticized for her clothing, her appearance, her weight, everything. She’d been torn apart, and after three years of dealing with being a major star’s girlfriend, she was found dead on her bathroom floor with fresh slices on her inner wrists. A month later, Haymitch had disappeared and no one had heard from him.

He was silent for a few minutes and she was about to change the topic when he spoke. “Look, princess, I’m not here for the publicity or the look. I play music. That’s what I do. So don’t ask me about something you know nothin’ about.” He growled . “Besides, prisses like you don’t even listen to my music. They wear the T-shirts and go to the concerts because they like to look cool. It’s completely fake. Don’t pretend you know me.”

“First off, don’t speak to me that way. You might be crude and awful but I don’t deserve this. I’m doing my job.” She said angrily, crossing her arms. “I was never a fan of your music. I have never listened to any of it until my drive here.” She said turning off the recording device. He looked up at her confused. “It’s never been about not wanting to. My parents never really let me listen to your music while I was in school, they thought it was too rebellious and wild for me. I wanted to try it but by the time I was in college and could actually make my own choices, nobody had heard anything from you.” She snapped. “So it’s not my fault if people don’t listen to your music, considering you  _ haven’t made any in ten years. _ ”

They were both quiet for a few minutes, until he stood up and, going to the corner of the room, grabbed a guitar she hadn’t noticed there. “What are you doing?” She asked.

“Off the record? Playing you one of the songs from the new album.” He said. “You’ve never heard one, best do this right. It’s acoustic, mind, but still.” He said shrugging. She smiled and waved her hand, setting down her pad of paper as he began to sing, strumming the guitar methodically.

_ So if you're looking for some proof that there's a heart inside of me, _

_ Then lace your fingers between mine and you will see it start to leak. _

_ And I know you're not a crutch but I can hold you when I stand, _

_ 'Cause I am living for your touch but I would die to be your man. _

_ Let me look into your eyes like I am searching for your soul, _

_ Wrap my arms around your waist like it is dying from the cold. _

_ Run my fingers through your hair like they are water from the drain, _

_ Press my lips against your back like they could take away its pain. _

He stopped after those two verses, glancing up at her. She had forgotten she was supposed to be doing her job, her little notepad fallen to the floor and watching him intently and just listened to his music. Effie Trinket, so often thinking ahead of what was to come and overthinking things, was living in the moment and all she could think was of his beautiful lyrics and the sad, mournful look on his face as he played.

“Well?” He asked, setting the guitar down and glancing up at her.

She blushed, sure she she had a ridiculous expression on her face. “That was beautiful.” She breathed. He ducked his head to hide a boyish grin. He might be rude and uncultured, but something about him when he was playing or when he wasn’t putting up some kind of act, made him beautiful.

“Why do you do it?” She asked. He glanced up at her and shrugged.

“It started out to get girls, then turned out I was good at it. I like playing music.” He said.

She shook her head. “Sorry – not what I meant.” She said, trying to clarify. “I mean, you put up this persona of a big star who drinks and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. But just now when you played you weren’t that – you were vulnerable and open and real. Why do you hide that?” She asked.

He glanced down and saw her notepad, snatching it up and stuffing it in his pocket. “You aren’t gonna report this part?” He asked. She nodded. “People have a perception of me. Drunk, rock star, sex god.” He said with a cocky smirk making her roll her eyes. He was looking at her intently and leaned in closer. “They don’t know me. And they never will. If I keep people from seeing my shit, I don’t get hurt. Even if pretending is hard sometimes. People don’t get that.” He said.

She hadn’t realized just how close he’d gotten as he spoke – or maybe she’d been leaning forward. Either way, she was close enough that she could see those clear gray eyes that girls went wild for and she completely understood why. Even with age, he was still ruggedly attractive, even sexy. “I do.” She said quietly, her hand moving to his thigh and squeezing gently, both wanting to comfort him and to touch him.

Glancing up at her and catching her eye for a second, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips, Haymitch moved, quicker than she would expect a man who had spent the last ten years drinking. She expected him to kiss her, and he paused as if he wanted to, before moving to her neck. He started pressing open mouthed kisses there, nuzzling occasionally with his nose. Her hand went into his hair, tangling and letting out a soft moan of his name encouraging him to keep going.

With a soft growl of her name, Haymitch had hauled her off of her seat. She let out a little squeak of surprise until he had her in his lap, and she caught sight of his smirk before he returned to her neck, now nibbling and sucking. She groaned, one hand scratching over his head with sharp nails and the other fisting in his shirt. “Haymitch…” She whined.

“Mmm?” He asked knowingly. She wanted to glare but at that moment he had started tracing his tongue over her collarbone and she was lost, her head falling back as his hand tugged down at her top to get more access to her shoulders and sternum. He kissed and licked, his hand moving up into her hair and pulling out clips and ties, running through the hairspray until it was down and over her shoulders. “Much better.” He sighed smirking. She wasn’t sure what to think – the complex updo was in every magazine and in style, but instead he seemed to like her hair down and messy, tangled with hairspray and product.

Not sure how to respond, she leaned in and kissed him hard. He groaned in surprise, kissing back. He tasted like whiskey and something slightly smoky. She liked it. She ran her nails over his chest, feeling him shiver beneath them. Since he was shirtless she didn’t have to bother with getting a shirt off of him, which meant she could explore his tattoos and the hair on his chest. There wasn’t a ton of hair, but more than other boyfriends she’d had. She found it oddly attractive. Her fingers traced over the tattoos on his chest and arms. On either shoulder she found tattoos of wings, starting at the top of his shoulder and moving onto his shoulder blades. Along his abdomen, were the four suits of cards – diamonds, spades, hearts, and clubs. In each one was an initial –  _ R _ for diamonds,  _ H _ for spades,  _ W _ for hearts, and  _ A _ for clubs. She was curious what this meant, but kept herself from asking despite her growing curiosity, even though she was sure the  _ W _ stood for Willow. Finally, there was one of a small snake, circling his nipple. She payed attention to this one, rubbing experimentally with her fingertip, making him buck against her.

“Fuck.” He hissed, and she was quickly thrown onto her back on the couch.

“Not just yet.” She flirted, stopping him with her hands on his shoulders. He paused above her, and she saw for a second fear of rejection in his eyes. She stroked his hair, trying to reassure him that she wasn’t going away. Even with his tough cover, she was sure now just how lonely he really was. “This couch is disgusting. We aren’t having sex here.” She announced. He smirked, looking around.

“Rug’s pretty clean.” He said, nodding to the white fur rug in the corner. She glanced at it and nodded. He got up, picking her up in the process. She wrapped her legs around his hips and smirked. Both of them paused as he dug in a messy, disorganized suitcase in the corner for a condom. She started kissing his neck as he walked, making him growl. “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop that we won’t even make it to the rug.” He said. She giggled and nipped, and he groaned before getting them to the rug, laying her down on her back and kneeling above her.

“Perfect.” She said, arching beneath him temptingly. The rug was soft so it wouldn’t chafe against her back, and he launched forward, pushing her skirt up and grinding against her, his hands going to the buttons of her top and pushing it off. She helped him take it off and watched as he licked his lips at the sight of her in a lacy pale pink bra. “You like?” She asked.

He nodded smirking and moved to kiss the tops of her breasts and her nipples through the lace before unhooking it. She slid the straps down and shrugged her bra off. He let out a groan that had her panties soaked in seconds. She pulled him down as he started to lick and suck at her nipples in turn. Bucking up, she brought her attention to his pants.

That leather fabric couldn’t be comfortable she was sure. It strained at the bulge in his pants to the point where it looked painful. She cupped him and he let out an agonized groan, his hands going from her breasts to struggle with the lacings of the tight pants. She giggled and helped him push them off, working on getting them past his upper thighs as his attention turned to her knickers. Once she’d managed to get the constricting pants down to his knees she saw that he wasn’t wearing any kind of underwear. She supposed this made sense – anything else would ruin the line of those pants – but she hadn’t expected it.

Haymitch, not having noticed her preoccupation with his lack of undergarments, was pulling down the scrap of lace between her thighs greedily, tossing them away. His hand lazily kneading her breast as the other pulled her leg over his hip. “Fuck, princess. You’re wet.” He rasped.

She smirked. “My name is Effie. Not princess.” She said, deciding to be daring and grabbed the condom from where it lay on the rug, tearing it open and rolling it over his length. He groaned as she gave him a gentle squeeze. “Ready, sweetheart?” She asked mockingly.

In response, he gave a grunt and thrust into her, pulling her legs up to wrap properly around him so the heels she was still wearing crossed beneath his arse.

She groaned, arching her back, her sharp nails digging into and scratching his back as he filled her. “Yes, Haymitch.” She panted, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. He ground down until his hips brushed hers. His nose buried in her hair as he breathed in, as if trying to commit the scent of her to memory, before kissing her and starting to move.

His thrusts started out slow and hard. Good, but not enough for her. Her nails dug into his ass harder and she could practically  _ hear _ his smirk. “Like that, sweetheart?” He asked. She whimpered in reply. “Or do you want more? How would you like me to fuck you?”

She gasped, more shocked by how much she liked his vulgar language than his use of it. “Faster.” She groaned. “Please, Haymitch, I need…” She trailed off and he swore under his breath, nose moving to nuzzle her neck as he picked up his pace, moving harder and faster. “Yes!” She shouted out. He pulled her legs up higher, over his hips to his waist and she moaned feeling him even deeper and how the position caused her clit to rub against him. Her head fell back as she felt him getting closer, knowing from the tensed muscles of his shoulders and the way his teeth clenched that he was as close as her.

_ “And to give you everything, there is nothing I won't do.”  _ He sang into her ear. She groaned. It was continuing the song he’d sang for her, even though his voice hitched and panted in pleasure. It was oddly romantic for their situation, but hearing him sing like that was more erotic than anything else he could have done. “ _ Dump my heart into a blender, just to pour it out to you. And I know you're feeling tired. Just let me hold you for a bit.”  _ He sang as she hovered over the edge before leaning in close to her ear, and rasping,  **_“Dive my face between your thighs until I cannot feel my lips, oh.”_ **

“Haymitch!” She shouted, her teeth biting hard into his neck as she came around him, distantly hearing his moan as he came seconds after her. She came down to him panting against her neck. She stroked his back, feeling the marks she was sure to leave there and was oddly proud.

She shivered when he got off of her, taking the condom off and disposing of it carefully. She smirked. He was intelligent – too many celebrities made the mistake of not being careful, and that was how pregnancy scandals came about. He pulled his pants back up but didn’t retie the laces, choosing instead to sit propped up against the wall and pulling her against him.

“None of this goes in your interview either.” He said smirking as he moved to nibble her shoulder.

She laughed. “My lips are sealed.”

  
  



End file.
